by Nora Roberts
“I appreciate it. He’s got to belong to somebody, right?”
“Hasn’t been neutered.” Alice stepped away, got a syringe. “As he’s a mixed breed, it’s not likely he has all his works because someone intends to breed him. He’s seriously underweight. Go on and stroke his head, distract him a little. He’s got intestinal worms,” Alice continued, as she drew blood. “The pads of all four paws are raw. I’m going to be able to tell in about twenty minutes or so if he’s had shots for rabies and distemper, if he has heartworm. But he’s got a little mange, and ticks and fleas have been at him.”
“Fleas.”
“Dead now, from the flea bath you gave him. I’m the only vet in town, and he hasn’t been in here before. Wouldn’t be the first time somebody dumped a dog they decided they didn’t want.”
“Oh.” Naomi looked down to where, despite the needles, the tests, the dog stared into her eyes with absolute trust.
“I’ll call the vets I know in the area, and we’ll put up your flyer, contact the shelters. It’s possible he got lost, and someone’s been looking for him.”
Naomi clung to the possibility.
It took more than an hour altogether, an unfortunate round of shots, though the dog handled them without more than a look of puzzlement. She left with a bag of pills, drops, pamphlets, written instructions, and a dog-sized hole in her credit card.
Reeling, she hunted up Xander’s garage.
It was bigger than she’d imagined. Cars and trucks scattered around a lot, some of them—such as the hatchback with the crunched front fender—obviously waiting for repairs.
One building about the size of a Quonset hut looked like it held offices. Another spread in a long backward L with the front bay doors open wide. The dog still didn’t like the leash, but she was onto him now, and shortened up her grip on it.
She intended to try the offices, but the dog pulled and bulled his way toward the open doors and the noise.
She heard the whoosh-thump of an air compressor, a steady banging, and Walk the Moon advising everyone to shut up and dance.
She’d spent a lot of time on the road, so she’d been in her share of garages. The sounds, the smells (grease, oil), the sights (tools, machines, car guts) seemed fairly usual. But they apparently fascinated the dog, who strained on the leash until he got inside.
Then his tail wagged like a flag in the breeze.
He’d obviously scented Xander over the motor oil, gas, lubes, and grease guns, and let out a happy, greeting bark.
Xander stood under a sedan on a lift doing whatever mechanics do to underbellies, Naomi decided. He wore scarred motorcycle boots and faded jeans with a hole in the knee and a dirty red rag hanging out of the back pocket. She couldn’t figure out how he made the look sexy.
“Hey, big guy.” He stuck the tool he’d used in his other back pocket, then crouched to greet the delighted dog. “You look better than you did yesterday.” He glanced up at Naomi. “You always look good.”
“We just came from the vet.”
“How’d he do?”
“He tried to crawl inside me in the waiting room because he was terrified of a Pomeranian. But she did have attitude. He has an ear infection and worms, and I have a bag full of pills and drops and instructions. He had to have a half million tests, followed by shots as the whatever-the-hell-it-is was low and he probably hasn’t had the shots before. He doesn’t have heartworm, so yay. And he needs to gain weight. I have dog vitamins, for God’s sake.
“Plus.”
She dug in her purse, took out the vet bill, held it out.
Xander said, “Ouch.”
“And this is the discounted, Good Samaritan rate.”
“Well, it’s his first, and he needed it. I’m good for half.”
“It’s not the money, though okay yeah, ouch; it’s the very strong sense I get that in her opinion nobody’s looking for him. What am I supposed to do with him?”
“Looks like you’re doing it.”
A man in gray coveralls and a gray cap with the garage’s logo wandered out and plugged coins into the soda machine along the wall. “That Chevy’s looking good as new, boss. Better.”
“Will it be ready by four?”
“She’ll be ready.”
“I’ll tell Syl.”
The dog tugged on the leash, and as Naomi had loosened her grip, he slipped free to wag his way to the new guy.
“Hey, boy. Your dog’s got a sweet face, ma’am.”
“He’s not mine. He’s not mine,” she said almost desperately to Xander, who only shrugged.
“Want another dog, Pete?”
“You know I would, but Carol would skin me. Nice dog,” he added, then walked off while the dog wandered around sniffing at everything.
“How’d he sleep?”
“What? The dog? Fine. I woke up at five because he was standing by the bed staring at me—and scared the crap out of me.”
“So he’s housebroken.”
“I guess. So far anyway, but—”
“You live a ways from town,” Xander continued. “A dog’s good security.”
“I’m having an alarm system installed.”
“A dog’s good company,” he shot back.
“I like solitude.”
“You’re a hard sell, Naomi.”
The dog walked back, tail wagging, with a rag hanging out of his mouth and happy eyes as he brought it to Naomi.
“He loves you.”
“Because he brought me a filthy rag he found on the floor.”
“Yeah. You’ll get used to it. Meantime, I’ll get you half that bill, and I’ll keep asking around if anyone’s missing him or interested in taking him.”
She dug into her purse again and came out with the flyer she’d printed. “Put this up.”
Xander studied it. “Nice shot of him.”
“I have to go get some work done. I haven’t done anything but dog all morning.”
“You could ask me to dinner.”
“Why would I?”
“Then you’d have done something else, and I’ll give him his evening meds. You said you can cook.”
She gave him a long, cool look. “You’re not after a meal.”
“Man’s gotta eat.”
“I don’t have dishes, or chairs, or a table. I’m not going to sleep with you, and I am not keeping this dog.” Annoyed with him, with herself, she snatched the leash and began to pull the dog out of the bay.
“You like to gamble, Naomi?”
She looked over her shoulder, still dragging the dog. “No.”
“Too bad, because I’d bet you every bit you just said’s going to change.”
The hell it would, she told herself.
She didn’t realize until she got home that the dog still had the disgusting rag. When she tried to get it from him, he decided she wanted to play tug. In the end, she gave up and sat on the top step of her front porch, the dog with the disgusting rag beside her. And the noise of saws and hammers behind.
“What have I done? Why didn’t I just pitch a tent in the woods? Why do I have a big house full of all these people? Why do I have a dog I have to medicate?”
Adoringly, he dropped the wet, greasy rag in her lap.
“Perfect. Just perfect.”
—
He went with her when she climbed down the steep, jumbled path to the shoreline. She’d been certain the dog would stay, hang out with the crew, but he’d insisted on going out when she did. Next time, she’d sneak out.
Still, she found he didn’t get in the way as she found her shots. Even the one of the dark purple starfish shining in a tidal pool. In fact, after a brief exploration, the dog seemed content to doze in the sun as long as she stayed in sight.
Just as he seemed content to curl up nearby when she sat at her desk working, or worked in her mat room.
If she went downstairs, the dog followed. If she went up, he climbed right up after.
When the house was quiet aga
in, she wondered if dogs could have abandonment issues.
He didn’t like the ear drops, and that was a battle—but she won. She knew from Kong the best way to get meds into a dog, and disguised the pills in rolled slices of cheese.
When she sat out on the deck eating her dinner of a grilled cheese sandwich, he ate his—and didn’t bolt it down as if starved this time.
And when she got into bed with her laptop to spend the last hour of her day looking for faucets and showerheads, the dog curled into his bed as if he’d done so all his life.
At five in the morning she woke with a start, the dog’s eyes gleaming at her, his doggy breath in her face.
Xander sent his half of the vet bill with Kevin, along with the message that he’d split the follow-up, too.
Two days later, he showed up himself with another bag of dog food, another rawhide bone, and the biggest box of Milk-Bones she’d ever seen.
She wondered if he’d timed it to arrive minutes after the crew left, or if it was just coincidence. But it made the dog happy, and he spent some time roughhousing with him.
“He’s getting some energy back.” Xander winged a tennis ball so the dog could chase it like it was gold.
“Nobody’s responded to the flyers. Nothing from any of the vets or shelters.”
“You’re going to have to face it, Slim. You’ve got yourself a dog. What’s his name?”
“I’m not naming him.” If she named him, she was finished.
“What do you call him?”
“The dog.”
Xander winged the ball again when the dog retrieved it, and shook his head. “Have a heart.”
“Having a heart’s what got me into this. If I keep him any longer, I have to have him neutered.”
Xander gave the dog a pitying look. “Yeah. Sorry about that, pal. You should try out some names.”
“I’m not going to—” She broke off. Why argue? “Alice said your dog was Milo. Where’d you get the name?”
“Milo Minderbinder.”
“Catch-22? Everybody gets a share?”
“Yeah. I’d just read it, and the pup, he just looked like he’d have all the angles. Name’s gotta fit. Are you going to ask me in?”
“I am not. Nothing’s changed.”
“It’s early days yet,” he said, then turned as she did at the sound of an approaching vehicle. “Expecting anybody?”
“No.”
The dog barked, raced up to stand beside Naomi.
“You’ve got a guard dog there.”
“I can guard myself just fine.” And her hand went into her pocket, closed over the folding knife.
The big truck lumbered up the hill—the big truck with New York plates.
The driver—young, sharp-eyed—leaned out the window. “Naomi Carson?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry we’re so late in the day. We got a little turned around.”
“I didn’t order anything from New York. Did you drive cross-country?”
“Yes, ma’am. Me and Chuck did it in fifty-five hours, twenty-six minutes.” He hopped out of the truck and gave the dog a pat while his companion hopped out the other side.
“Why?” Naomi asked.
“Sorry?”
“I don’t understand what you’re doing here.”
“Delivering your bed.”
“I didn’t order a bed.”
“Shoot. All this way and we forgot. No, ma’am, you didn’t order it. It’s a gift, sent by Seth Carson and Harry Dobbs. We’re to get it here, put it where you want it, and set it up. They paid for the full white-glove delivery.”
“When?”
“A little more than fifty-five hours and twenty-six minutes ago, I guess you could say.” He grinned again. “There’s a couple packages in the back, too. Wrapped. It’s a hell of a bed, ma’am.”
The one called Chuck handed her a clipboard with the order sheet. She recognized the name of the furniture store her uncles patronized.
“I guess we’ll find out.”
“Want some help with it?” Xander asked.
The driver gave his shoulders a roll, and Xander a look of pure gratitude. “It’s one big mama, so we could use it.”
As it was heavily wrapped for shipping, Naomi couldn’t say if it was a hell of a bed, except in size. She carted the packages, one at a time, as the men began the more laborious effort of getting the bed inside and up the stairs.
Since the dog stayed with the men, she got a box cutter and opened the first box. Four king-size pillows—down. In the second, more pillows, a gorgeously simple duvet several perfect shades deeper blue than her walls, with matching shams. In the third, two sets of lovely white-on-white Egyptian cotton sheets, and the handwritten note.
Our girl needs a bed, and one that gives her sweet dreams. We knew it was for you the minute we saw it. We love you, Seth and Harry.
“My men,” she said with a sigh, and carted the first box upstairs.
Since her bedroom was currently chaos and full of other men, and dog, she went back down, got soft drinks out of the fridge, and took them back up.
“’Preciate it. We’ll haul all the wrapping and padding away with it. We’ve got specific instructions. It’s going to take a while to get it put together.”
“Okay.”
“You want it where you got the mattresses, right?”
“I . . . Yes. That’s fine. I need to make a call.”
She left them to it, called home, and spent the next twenty minutes with Seth as Harry was at the restaurant. His pleasure zipped over every mile.
She didn’t tell him she’d narrowed down her choices and styles of bed, had even planned a day trip to Seattle to look some over. Whatever they’d bought her would be treasured just for that.
When she went back into the bedroom she stopped short. They had her mattresses on the frame, had the headboard and footboard on—or heading that way.
“Oh my God.”
“Pretty, isn’t it?”
She looked at the driver—she didn’t know his name—then back at the bed. “It’s gorgeous. It’s wonderful. It’s perfect.”
“Wait till we get the posts up.”
Mahogany, she thought, with satinwood crossbanding. Chippendale-style—she hadn’t been raised by Seth and Harry for nothing. The wood tones, rich and lovely, set off the soft colors of the walls. Fretwork legs, and posts high and turned.
If a woman didn’t have sweet dreams in a bed like that, she needed therapy.
“You okay, ma’am?”